


I Wanna Love You

by AgentJoanneMills



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fine Stud Lexa, Freeform, Romance, she wasn't a thing yet when i began this but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When wealthy socialite Clarke Griffin meets corporate billionaire Lexa Woods, her life takes several unexpected turns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Merely a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

 

_I wanna love you and treat you right_

_I wanna love you every day and every night_

_We’ll be together with the roof right over our heads_

_We’ll share the shelter of my single bed_

—Bob Marley, “Is This Love”

 

****

 

New York is a city that never sleeps.

 

The sun might not be up but it’s still frenetically pulsing with life: erratic, unpredictable, wild.

Its heartbeat is a cacophony of blowing horns and wailing sirens and gunshots and firecrackers.

Its veins are streets and avenues and boulevards, and its blood is diversity, pumping with the bitten off curses (and others yelled out loud) of pedestrians making their way along the sidewalk, mixed with the raucous voices of vendors hawking their merchandise.

There’s the roar of the subway as it zips underground.

There’s the music blaring through cafés and bars and centers of debauchery.

 

New York is a city that never sleeps.

 

****

 

Her eyes are cold and calculating as she gazes out her office’s floor-to-ceiling window. Located in the topmost level of a skyscraper, it offers her a clear and much-coveted view of Central Park and the city’s skyline. It is impressive during the day, but at night? It’s breathtaking, filled with bright lights and neon colors and glowing beams.

Not that she particularly cares about the aesthetics, though.

No, she’s not staring because she’s awed by its beauty nor because she’s subservient to its splendor.

Some (many) would say that it’s the other way around.

The city is the one who’d like to impress _her_.

 

Lexa Woods commands all that she surveys.

That’s an irrefutable fact.

 

(This city is proof of that.)

 

****

 

“We _must_ go out for a drink.”

Clarke shakes her head amusedly at her best friend’s proclamation. She barely spares her a glance, attention focused as she takes out a wide variety of items from one of the many moving boxes littered around their new living room. “Getting drunk before a workday is never a good idea, Raven.”

Raven chuckles from where she’s seated on the floor, leaning against the sofa. Her laptop is beside her, and so are a dozen scattered pieces of paper on which she scribbled engineering ideas. “I didn’t say anything about getting drunk. I just think that we should somehow celebrate since you’re officially beginning your life as a working woman tomorrow.”

“You never run out of excuses to have fun, do you?” Clarke says while affecting an exasperated air, though they both know it’s just for show.

“In my defense, snagging your first job _ever_ really warrants a good time.” Raven’s tone impossibly combines reasoning and whining. It’s a talent of hers, one that Clarke finds amusing and frustrating.

(They’re a pair of contradictions, the both of them.)

She replies, “Yes, but I might prematurely lose said job if I’m tardy on my first day.”

There’s a rustle as Raven stands up. “We won’t stay up late, I promise. We’d just go, grab a couple of drinks, and then get back here.” She closes the distance between them and puts her hand on Clarke’s shoulders, forcing the blonde to finally look at her. “Come on, Princess. I’d even help you in unpacking afterwards,” she says seriously, though her eyes are twinkling with mischief.

Clarke laughs, batting Raven’s hands away. “You’re supposed to help out in the first place, you uncultured swine.”

“You know I don’t do housework for free,” Raven smirks.

Clarke raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You don’t do housework, period.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Raven grins at her expectantly. “So, what do you say?”

They’ve done this a million times. It always plays out the same way.

After a few beats of them staring stubbornly at each other, Clarke finally huffs a breath and rolls her eyes dramatically. “God, living with you alone would be such a terrible burden,” she grumbles, even as she picks up a black jacket lying by her feet and puts it on.

“You still love me though,” Raven winks.

She laughs when Clarke doesn’t argue the point.

 

****

 

The club Raven has chosen is located right across _the_ Polis, the lofty tower where Clarke will be working the very next day.

 _The Drop Ship_ , Clarke recalls the sign outside says. Quite a strange name for such an establishment, but it surprisingly suits the atmosphere.

“How did you even know this place?” Clarke asks as Raven tugs her deeper into the club—no, not a club. This is more like a music lounge. It’s classier and more sophisticated than Raven’s usual hangouts. The interior is sleek, a flawless mesh of modern and vintage. There are black-and-white photos hanging on the walls, depicting old New York, and there are random ’40’s relics scattered throughout that amazingly do not seem out of place. There’s a space mostly used as a dance floor, and past it is the stage surrounded by low tables and couches.

“Found it on the net,” Raven answers absently.

They take a spiral chrome staircase to the second floor, which is even better than the first.

There’s a section that’s more like a common room, with comfortable looking settees in colors not always seen in clubs—creams and beiges and whites. There are flat screens showing live feeds of the scene below. There’s a VIP section, offering privacy to the patrons without sacrificing their enjoyment—isolated from the rest and yet still with a better view of the stage. A part of it overlooks the grounds, affording a view of the downstairs crowd while hidden from them. Strategically placed lamps give off warm lighting and the mahogany furniture add a homey feel.

Clarke is actually kind of impressed.

Raven leads her to the bar and hops on a stool. She doesn’t waste any time in getting the attention of the bartender. “One rose sangria and one whiskey on the rocks, please.”

Clarke rolls her eyes fondly as she takes the seat on Raven’s left. “You didn’t even ask me what I want.”

Raven snorts. “You’ve been ordering the same damn thing in like, forever. Who’s to say you’re gonna change it now?”

“Hey, I might have surprised you,” she defends.

Raven turns so that she’s facing her. The look in her eyes is pure skepticism. “You love constancy too much to ever try out new things, Clarke.”

“Oh, shut up. I _can_ handle change.” Clarke straightens, and adds proudly, “I mean, look, I even moved away from home. That should count for something.”

Raven sneers. “Yeah, after making sure at least one of us will stay with you in this new and scary place.”

“I did not ask you to come with me,” Clarke says, sulking.

“Not directly, but your passive-aggressive behaviour for the past four months had been grating on my nerves—and also Bell’s and Octavia’s and even Jasper’s—and really, there’s only so much veiled remarks that I can stand before I decide to silence you forever and murder you in your sleep.”

“I was not passive-aggressive!”

“You were,” Raven looks at her knowingly.

“I just said that New York is supposedly this city of endless opportunities and that it’s a great option for a change in scenery!”

“Which is all well and good if you haven’t repeated it for like a hundred times,” Raven retorts.

Clarke is stopped from answering when their drinks arrive. “Thanks,” she tells the bartender. She turns her attention back to her adoptive sister not a second later. “I was merely giving my suggestion since you’ve been ranting on about how bored you were at home.”

“I wasn’t _ranting_.”

This time it’s Clarke who snorts, and it would’ve been funny if she didn’t manage to still make the action seem somewhat elegant. “Have you even heard yourself, with all the blabber on how you want a change of pace? You nary even talked about anything else.” Clarke’s lips curl and she adds in an impressive facsimile of Raven’s drawl, “‘ _I think a move out of this place is in the cards_ , _don_ ’ _t you think so too_ , _Clarke_?”’

“I do _not_ sound like that.”

“You _do_.” Clarke smirks, sipping her drink. She swallows daintily. “This is good,” she comments, almost as if she didn’t expect it.

Forgoing a continuation of their argument, Raven takes a sip from her own glass and nods in agreement. “Well, we’ve found our new lair, then. And it’s like, only 15 minutes away from our place, so, score.”

“Actually, it’s double-score. I just have to cross the street and I’m in the office.” She narrows her eyes playfully. “You planned this didn’t you?”

“I did no such thing,” Raven refutes. “But your mother’s gonna be real pleased that the whole trip and back from the penthouse to your new office is just barely half an hour.”

Clarke looks bemused. “That’s not to say that our lives are going to be limited to that distance, you know.”

“I know,” Raven smiles naughtily. “There are lots of places I’d like to explore while you’re _working_.”

“I was going to suggest that you try and find a job of your own, but I see that you have other ideas,” Clarke says with an eyebrow raised.

Raven grunts in obvious disbelief. “Me? Tied to a boring desk job? No, thank you.”

She pretends to look affronted. “Who says I’m going to be doing desk jobs?”

“Well, you’re kind of an assistant to some manager and I don’t think that involves anything other than a desk.” She lowers her voice, teasing. “Unless you plan to play.” She waggles her eyebrows for emphasis.

Clarke chuckles as she punches Raven’s shoulder, making the other laugh as well. “You’re such a child.”

“Which is why I don’t work.”

That’s partly true.

Though Raven doesn’t necessarily work the way most people do, she’s still earning money. She’s an engineer, and a brilliant one at that. She specializes in quantum physics, and has been featured in a lot of science magazines since she was about eight—around the time she was orphaned and came to live with the Griffins.

She’s been recruited by different agencies—private and otherwise—but she never accepted any offer. She just develops what she wants when she wants it. She lets Jake Griffin—Clarke’s dad—handle the rest.

So currently Raven Reyes is a millionaire in her own right.

“Won’t you get bored, having nothing to do?” Clarke asks.

Raven shakes her head. “Oh, no. I told you, I plan to explore.” She sighs. “It would be so much more fun if you’re with me to do that, though.”

Clarke gives her an apologetic look, knowing where this discussion is headed. “You know what they say. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Or something.”

“Yeah, but you don’t _gotta do_ that work thing, Clarke,” Raven whines.

“This is self-fulfillment, Raven. I’m going to do this now than undergo a worse version of midlife crisis in the future.” She shrugs. “At least I could get that out of the way early.”

“You’re barely out of college, and you’re thinking of a midlife crisis somewhere in the unforeseeable future.” Raven scrunches her nose in distaste. “What is wrong with you?”

“I just want to see if I can make it without all the pompoms, okay?” Clarke admits, a bit defensive. “I want to make my own way without using Dad’s name.”

Raven looks skeptical. “Your boss is a Jaha. They _are_ a family friend,” she points out.

Clarke glowers at her and defends hotly, “I underwent three interviews. Wells was present only for the third one, and that was to check our work compatibility. He didn’t know beforehand that the only candidate who made it that far is a Griffin.”

“Okay, okay,” Raven makes a calm-down gesture, “don’t bite my head off.”

“You know I hate it when people make those kinds of nepotism assumptions. I want to live on my own terms, with my own merits, and asking for favors based on family ties is going against that principle.” Clarke downs her drink, looking extremely miffed. “I don’t care if I had to take entry-level jobs to do that, but I got this position fair-and-square.”

“I get it, geez.”

“No, you don’t. You already did something for yourself.”

Raven regards her coolly for several moments. “You’re right,” she finally says. “I don’t, not totally. But I kind of see your point.”

Clarke made a disbelieving sound.

“Hey, I do,” Raven insists. “And I just want to remind you that you already did something for yourself too, idiot.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“People know you because of your ad thing during your teens. The art expo gig with those foundations.”

“That’s different!”

“How so?” Raven challenges. “I personally think that’s something worth being known for. People recognize you because of the causes you support, not because of your family name. And you don’t even have to prove anything to anyone.” She finishes her own drink, putting down the empty glass harder than she intended. “But you’re so keen on proving yourself to yourself, and so we’re not travelling the world right now. And it sucks big time, because I really want to go to Tahiti. They say it’s splendid this time of year.”

Clarke sighs. They’ve had this conversation (and variations thereof) before. There’s really nothing much more left to say. “I’ll just see if I like it there, all right? If I don’t, we’ll go on that trip.”

Raven eyes her warily, but there is hope in there. “Is that a deal?”

“It is.”

Clarke stares at Raven steadily as the latter studies her.

“Okay,” Raven agrees.

Clarke releases a relieved breath. It’s not that she wants to hate her job, but if that ended up being the case, then it couldn’t be helped now, could it? It might disappoint her, but at least someone will be a bit happier. Either way works. Really.

(That’s what she’s telling herself.)

Shaking off her unease, she hops down her seat. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Raven is staring at her incredulously, as if she suddenly started speaking Latin. “We only had _one_ drink.” Her tone is almost offended.

“You said we’d grab a couple of drinks,” she reasonably replies, in her best I-might-be-younger-than- you-but-you-should-still-listen-to-me-because-I-am-far-more-mature tone. “You had one, and I had one. That’s a couple.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“I am not.” She blinks at Raven faux-innocently. “You simply didn’t specify.”

“You _know_ I meant _at least_ a couple for each of us, Clarke.”

“Are we really going to argue semantics right now?”

“We’re not arguing.”

“We kind of are.”

“It’s common sense!”

“It’s not.”

“Just one more,” Raven moans like a child, looking at her with a doe-like expression usually reserved for when she’s asking something from Jake.

It won’t work on Clarke though.

“No,” Clarke stresses the word by putting a hand on her hip.

“Ugh.” Raven pouts but she knows it’s no use. When Clarke uses that look—the one she adopted from her mother, Dr. Abigail Griffin, herself—there’s no fighting her. Raven has no choice but to give in to whatever she says. “I hate you sometimes,” she grouses, though she’s already standing up, leaving a crisp bill on the table.

Clarke laughs. “You don’t,” she replies haughtily, turning to the direction from which they came, only to crash into another person.

She would have stumbled face-first if not for the two gentle yet strong hands that grip her on her waist.

“I am so sorry,” she says automatically, her own hands resting on the other person’s shoulders for balance.

Clarke’s brain registers that it’s warm where they’re touching, as if there’s candlelight burning beneath that body, and the warmth travels through her own as if bolts of electricity have been charged directly to her bloodstream.

It’s a new feeling, and yet also incredibly familiar—like it’s something that she’s been dreaming of, something she’s been looking for without consciously knowing it.

Blinking out the sudden daze, she turns her gaze up—for she’s shorter than the figure she crashed into by at least a couple of inches—opening her mouth for another apology.

But the words die in her throat, and her breath catches, and her world stops spinning when she meets a pair of forest green eyes staring right back at her.

 

****

 

She’s like a renaissance painting come alive.

That is Lexa’s only thought the moment she sees _her_ across The Drop Ship’s second floor.

She thinks the woman is an angel, with her sapphire eyes and her rosy skin and her plump pink lips and her sun-kissed hair.

Her eyes trail over the lean form, never missing anything. She takes note of the effortless elegance in her every movement (fluid like a princess), how she overflows with easy charm despite the casual outfit (dark jeans and boots and a black jacket over a simple white V-neck), and the way those lips (that are just asking to be kissed) lift up when she smiles.

And even though they’re separated by more than a few yards, Lexa hears it when she laughs, and the sound of it is musical—low and rich and so darn _lovely_ , dripping with a seductive innocence that makes  it that much more irresistible—and she _wants_.

 

(Oh, how she wants.)

 

(And what Lexa wants, Lexa gets.)

 

****

 

She’s used to watching. In fact, she enjoys watching:

  * watching people squirm under her gaze (She’s the Commander . . .);
  * watching a project come to fruition (. . . who is very involved in the things she oversees . . .);
  * watching a work of art come alive (. . . and who has a taste for the finer things in life.)



 

And when presented a masterpiece—moving, breathing, laughing—she really can’t turn down the opportunity to watch, can she?

 

****

 

Masterpieces are meant to be admired, not touched.

 

But she is a divine masterpiece.

 

She is meant to be revered.

 

(Lexa will do just that.)

 

****

 

It’s like being close to the sun.

(Maybe this is what Icarus felt—before crashing down and burning.

But if it really was like this, then it’s worth it.)

 

****

 

“Easy,” Lexa murmurs as the woman steadies herself.

And then she’s looking straight at the most beautiful pair of eyes she’s ever seen.

She still has her grip on the woman’s waist, and there are hands on her shoulders, and it’s _perfect_.

Lexa doesn’t fail to notice how the woman ( _sweet princess_ ) visibly swallows, or how her tongue peaks out to wet her lips, or how she still hasn’t uttered a word since her initial apology (which was unwarranted, because it’s Lexa’s fault—not that she’s particularly sorry herself, because it did take the two of them closer to each other, and that’s what’s important right now).

They stay like that—still like statues—for several moments, until the woman’s companion pointedly clears her throat.

The sound of it seems to jar the blonde from her thoughts, for she startles and steps back a bit clumsily.

Lexa mourns the loss of contact, but she doesn’t show it (of course).

“I am so sorry,” she says again. She’s still looking her in the eyes, and Lexa feels exposed—as if she’s being stripped of her mask, as if she’s being examined inside-out, and she has nowhere to hide.

(It’s unnerving.

But her mask is still in place.)

“Don’t be,” Lexa replies smoothly. “I’m the one who wasn’t looking.” (Lie.)

The woman doesn’t say anything, just nods.

“Are you all right?” Lexa asks.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you,” she answers. She swallows again. “I’m really, really sorry.” Another apology, and then her eyes flick to her dark-haired companion (who’s just watching them interact with her eyebrows raised in some semblance of amusement). “Let’s go, Raven.” She takes the girl’s—Raven’s—arm and walks past Lexa, avoiding her gaze now, and then she’s gone.

But Lexa knows they’ll meet again.

 _Soon_.

 

She’s sure of it.

 


	2. The Elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s wearing another expensive-looking suit that seems to be made just for her. Her eyes—so bright and captivating—are emphasized by the spotless white dress shirt and black jacket and slacks. She’s leaning against the far wall, hands in her pockets—the stance is casual, but nothing else about her is. She exudes a natural air of authority, as if she has her personal magnetic field that just draws people in.
> 
> And she’s even more gorgeous than Clarke remembers.

 

This is abso- _freaking_ -lutely hilarious. Just because of the sheer amount of enjoyment she gets from this situation she’s forgiving Clarke for hastily ending their happy time. This right now is much more fun than whatever sort of entertainment a bottle of whiskey can give her anyway.

More than that, this would also give her ammunition that would last for ages. Oh, she won’t let Clarke forget this any time soon. And she’d call the Blake siblings later, for back-up. They’re gonna _love_ this.

Raven has to really exert effort to not just fall down laughing.

She’s always known that Clarke is easy to rile up, and that’s one of the reasons why she’s an easy target for their teasing. Clarke always ends up either a sputtering mess or a speechless mess, both of which involves her turning the colour of Titian’s favourite paint.

But this—this is different. This is not a flabbergasted sort of speechless. This is more like the am-I-seeing-this-or-is-this-an-illusion-and-gosh-I-want-you-right-now sort of speechless. She’d believed that she’d never see her best friend/adoptive sis that way because Clarke’s got the whole sweetheart image going on, but boy _is it just an image_.

Raven can’t fault her taste though, because— _damn_ —the human being who inspired such reaction is all kinds of hot. Like, objectively speaking, just, _whoa_. She’s scorching, to be honest (and Raven’s trying to be real honest these days), all lean limbs and dark hair and compelling green eyes.

And Clarke is kind of eating the woman alive with her eyes (which is a bit of a really impressive feat), and the pretty woman is returning the favor with an equal (if not more) amount of intensity. And wow, Raven feels like she’s intruding on something.

And yeah, it’s entertaining to see Clarke so out of herself, but it’s also kind of weird because she’s still her sister, and watching her have eye-sex with anyone (no matter how hot the person is) is not really in Raven’s to-do list. Like, at all. Ugh.

It doesn’t seem like they have any plans of stopping soon though, and Raven just wants to tell them to get a room already (because _duh_ , they so want to), but she figures Clarke won’t take _that_ well.

So she does what a responsible adult would (probably) do and clears her throat to save her friend from further embarrassment. (See? She can be mature if she wants to be.)

The sound shocks Clarke so much she almost jumps, which just goes to show how distracted she is, and Raven just barely holds in a snicker.

Clarke finally takes back a step from where she’s like, an inch away from kissing Pretty Woman. She apologizes for crashing into her and stuff, and then Clarke’s dragging Raven away.

The grip on her arm is tight, and Raven has no choice but to follow.

 

****

 

They catch a cab back to their building because Raven thinks Clarke can’t handle walking right now. And there’s no resistance whatsoever because apparently Clarke’s still hung up on what just happened. (Not that Raven blames her, because her type or not, Pretty Woman is obviously some kind of sex-on-a-stick or something.)

She takes pity on her sister and doesn’t say anything—yet. (Boy, being mature sure is hard work. How do adults make that seem so easy? She gotta ask Jake and Abby next time.)

They spend the short ride in silence, and when they arrive, Clarke goes on ahead of her. Raven hands the cabbie their fare with a generous tip.

Raven greets the doorwoman, Byrne, on her way in.

“Howdy, Byrne!”

She tips her hat. “Hello, Ms. Raven,” she greets back (and Raven’s glad she doesn’t call her Ms. Reyes anymore, because frankly, that’s _so_ not her). She waves a hand to where Clarke has stormed through. “Did Ms. Griffin have a bad day?” she asks concernedly.

Raven reassures her with a grin. “Nope, she just experienced something unexpected.”

She almost sprints to catch up to Clarke, who’s already boarding the elevator.

It takes all of her willpower to not giggle at Clarke’s face. It’s flushed, and her breathing is heavy, and she’s obviously trying to school her expression into something resembling composure.

Raven should have known that Ms. Pretty-Woman-Sex-On-A-Stick would be Clarke’s undoing. (Of course. She should’ve seen this coming. Like, from a mile away.)

They get out of the elevator and into their unit. When the door’s shut tight behind them and Clarke still hasn’t said a word, Raven decides to speak.

“So, that’s something.” She looks at her sister, raising an eyebrow meaningfully.

Clarke ignores her.

“Interesting.”

No response, still.

“That _was_ pretty intense, huh?”

Nothing.

Finally Raven blurts out, “You have that PTF look going on, you know.”

Clarke blinks. “What?” she says at last. (It’s just a word, but Raven’s an optimist, so she’s taking that as an improvement.)

“Prepping-To-Fuck,” Raven explains with roll of her eyes (and barely a giggle—see, she can control herself sometimes).

That seems to shake Clarke out of her haze. “I do not,” she says, positively upset.

“Yeah, you really do. And before you say any more,” Raven holds out a hand to ward off Clarke’s retort and adds in a rush, “just remember that I have eyes, and I saw the whole eyeing-each-other-with-lust thing, so there’s no denying it. It’s kind of very obvious that you wanted to jump each other’s bones; you weren’t even trying to hide it, and it’s kind of really funny ’cause it’s like you’ve forgotten other people were even there, and I haven’t seen that look on you since you’re fifteen, and even _that_ was a different kind of wild.”

Raven smirks when Clarke sputters some half-assed excuses that hold no water, because “You’re into her, Clarke.”

Clarke sighs and flops down the sofa. “It’s not like I’m going to see her again.”

“Who says?”

Clarke’s the one who rolls her eyes this time. “It’s a big city, Raven. The odds of us meeting again are slim to none.” She sighs again, running a hand through her crimson locks. “And it’s not like she’s someone I’d like to entangle with.”

Raven scoffs disbelievingly. “Right.”

Clarke just glares at her. “You know what I mean. Sure, she seems real good in bed and all that, but she just . . . she seems _dangerous_.”

“But hot.”

Clarke puffs a breath but says, “Yes.” She raises her knees to her chest, hugging her legs close. “She really is,” she adds, and it’s like she’s not aware that she’s said it at all.

Raven sits down next to her. “You’re drooling,” she teases.

“Shut up.”

“If it’s any consolation, she’s close to drooling too, when you’re having your little stand-off.”

Clarke tilts her head questioningly. “Huh?”

“The way she stared at you. Kind of like she’s a hunter or something, and you’re the one being hunted.”

Clarke crinkles her nose. “That’s not a very reassuring choice of words.”

“You worked her up almost as much as she did you. That’s something!”

“Sure,” Clarke mumbles, but there’s no confidence in it. “Look,” she says, burying her face on her knees and basically curling into a ball, “can we just forget this ever happened?”

“Never,” Raven answers with certainty. “Your expression when you saw Ms. Sex-On-A-Stick was too darn precious to forget.”

Clarke groans. “Sex-On-A-Stick? Really?”

“You know it’s true.”

“Drop it.”

“Come on, Clarke,” Raven says, “if you think seeing the lady again is out of the table, just use her face in your fantasies and make her perfect and not dangerous there.”

“I am not taking advices for my sex life from you, Raven.”

“It’s basically nonexistent at this point. I really think you need all the help you can get, and I’d be too hap—”

“No.”

“But—”

Clarke lifts her head up and frowns, and it’s the frown reserved for when Raven’s treading on unsafe waters. “ _No_ ,” she repeats, with more gravitas this time. She takes a deep breath, unfolds herself, and stands up. “I’m going to take a cold shower and forget what happened after you manipulated me into going to that freaking bar with you, and I’m going to head to bed because tomorrow I’m officially working in one of the greatest cities in the world.”

With that she marches away. Raven sits there looking decidedly amused, shaking her head at her sister’s vigorous refutation.

(As if Raven can’t read her by now. Huh.)

Then she sees her laptop still on the floor, and Raven gets an idea.

 

****

 

Raven is looking at a feed from The Drop Ship, having hacked her way in (she’s talented like that). The one on her screen right now is from before they went down the stairs, when Clarke hauled Raven away.

Raven catches the look on Sex-On-A-Stick’s face, and it’s almost predatory, trained on Clarke and Clarke alone.

 

After some more typing and clicking, Raven mutters a soft, “ _Damn_.”

She throws a glance at the general direction of Clarke’s room, and wicked delight bubbles in her chest.

She bites her lip to keep from giggling. Geez, there _is_ gonna be a chase.

And her dear best friend is the prey.

(Oh, this is gonna be lovely.)

Clarke’s in for an interesting day tomorrow.

 

****

 

That night she dreams of dark hair and green eyes and burning intensity.

Clarke has never been so freaking unsettled.

Granted, she’s never seen such fine human specimen either.

That doesn’t mean she has to lose sleep over it.

Seriously, she’s just another girl.

A really sexy, hot one at that, but _still_.

Ugh.

She tosses and turns and twists on her bed, and it’s one of the most restless nights of her life.

 

Tomorrow’s going to be dreadful.

 

****

 

Raven’s awake when Clarke emerges from her room the next morning, which in itself is startling. She says so. The other girl just shrugs and then shoves her to the kitchen—breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast is already served, and there’s even a steaming mug of coffee ready for consumption.

Clarke’s senses are tingling with suspicion now.

“What’s with you today?” she asks.

“Just eat,” is the grumpy reply.

“I feel like this is a trap,” she says, even as she takes a bite and washes it down with a sip of coffee.

“I put in effort as support for your working life, and this is the thanks I get?”

Clarke raises a hand in surrender. “Sorry. And thanks,” she says sincerely, because the coffee is pretty decent, and the food’s actually edible. (And honestly, Clarke’s touched Raven sacrificed her beloved sleep just to make her breakfast. It’s an unprecedented occurrence.)

Raven just releases a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort and trudges back to her room.

Clarke thinks about following her, but knowing Raven, she’d probably be asleep the moment her head hits her pillow. So she leaves her be. She just finishes her food in silence, downs her coffee, and goes to work.

 

It’s a brand new day.

 

****

 

The Polis is one magnificent building, a product of state-of-the-art technology. Not surprising, as it is owned by Grounders Consolidated, world leader in research, development, and global security. It is imposing in a refined kind of way—a sophisticated obsidian steel-and-glass structure tapering into the sky, gleaming in the sunlight. It’s like a glorious sword pointed up to the heavens, and Clarke can’t help but admire it; she’s been here before for her interviews, of course, but the sight still awes her.

She passes through the revolving glass doors and crosses the smooth marble floor to the turnstiles. She puts a hand on the security pad to have her fingerprints scanned. Then she’s in.

Alpha Station, the advertising firm she’s working for, is located on the twenty-second floor. Exiting the elevator, she faces its entrance hall—all bulletproof glass walls and doors. There’s another security pad for the employees’ prints, and once they’re cleared, they could get to the reception area.

She beams at the receptionist. “Hey, Harper.”

“Hey, Clarke,” Harper beams back. “Wells is not in yet, but you got the place down pat, yeah?”

“Yup,” she nods, then heads to the right wing. Her boss’s office is by the windows, and her work station is in a previously empty space that leads up to it.

Now there’s a desk in there and a comfy chair. Over all, it’s a nice place to work in, really.

She’s just finished turning on her PC when a tall man comes striding in.

She stands up in greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Jaha.”

“Good morning, Clarke. And please, it’s just Wells. I can’t help but look for my father whenever someone calls me Mr. Jaha,” he says, giving her a warm smile. “Come follow me.”

She does as she’s told, trailing after him. Wells takes off his coat and flings it over the back of his chair. He then waves to the seats before his desk, prompting Clarke to sit down as he does as well.

“Settling down well here in New York?” he asks.

“Just about. Raven and I aren’t done unpacking yet.”

“Ah, I had the same problem when my partner and I first moved in together,” he says with a fond smile. “Unpacking and decorating is hell. Of course, it’s easier to hire someone for the job, but it’s nicer if there’s a personal touch, isn’t it?”

“It is. But it’s still a tedious task, especially when the person you moved in with refuses to do her part,” she says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

Wells chuckles, “Been there, too. Seriously, patience is everything.”

“You got that. Luckily I have plenty in reserve.”

Wells’s eyes shine bright at that. “Oh, good thing. You’re gonna need it here too.” He grins sheepishly. “You’re my first assistant ever, and I’m not quite sure how to go around the whole deal yet. I’m going to pick things up as we go, and I might stumble and blunder a bit, so I’m going to need you to be patient with me.”

“I understand,” Clarke nods with a smile.

“I want you to have a pleasant working environment, so if there’s something wrong, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay? There’s a learning curve for the both of us here, and your input would be appreciated.”

Her smile widens, and she’s really glad that her boss is a very considerate and open one. “Of course.”

Wells nods at her and hums thoughtfully as his eyes scan the office. “Now, as a start . . .”

 

****

 

Wells shows her the accounts for which he’s currently responsible, instructing her on the basic tasks done for those still in the preliminary stages.

By the time noon rolls in, Clarke’s hungry but pleased with how this day’s turning out to be.

She’s given more than an hour for lunch, and Wells’s only request is that she gets back at 1:30 to help him prepare for his two o’clock appointment. He’s meeting with a major client, and he wants her to come with him, which is an amazing opportunity that an amateur like her couldn’t pass up.

 

Maybe it won’t be such a dreadful day after all.

 

 _Wrong_.

 

****

 

There’s a deli downstairs, and Clarke figures that it’d be good for her to try that first before deciding if she’s going to head outside the building for food in the next days.

She is on her way to the reception area when she receives a text from Raven.

**RavinMad** :

Met her yet?

– Raven

 

She frowns, confused.

 

 **SkyPrincess** :

What now?

– CG

She makes the mistake of still looking down at her phone when she gets in the elevator, which is why she’s so unprepared when she looks up and meets the same pair of eyes that knocked the breath out of her last night.

 

Sex-On-A-Stick.

She works in the building, too.

 

And before Clarke realizes that she’s the only other occupant of the confined space, it’s too late.

The doors are already closed, and she’s face-to-face with _her_ again.

 _Damn_.

 

****

 

She’s wearing another expensive-looking suit that seems to be made just for her. Her eyes—so bright and captivating—are emphasized by the spotless white dress shirt and black jacket and slacks she's wearing. She’s leaning against the far wall, hands in her pockets—the stance is casual, but nothing else about her is. She exudes a natural air of authority, as if she has her personal magnetic field that just draws people in.

And she’s even more gorgeous than Clarke remembers.

Her rich dark locks are tied back into a high ponytail, and it accentuates the strong lines of her nose and jaws and the slender column of her neck. And her lips are curled into a tiny smirk—a smirk that Clarke wants to spend time to learn, to worship, to kiss.

(Clarke tightens her hands into fists to keep herself from doing anything foolish.)

Awareness simmers underneath her skin as the elevator descends.

 _Stupid_ , _stupid_ , _stupid mistake_.

If Raven didn’t text her, she wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

 _Argh_. Raven! The text makes sense now.

 _She somehow freaking knew_!

(Clarke swears she’s going to make the damn girl pay for this.)

“Hey,” the smooth voice cuts into the space between them.

Miraculously, Clarke finds her voice (somewhere beneath the rubble that was her dignity). “Hi.”

A dark eyebrow rises, and so does a corner of those (very distracting) lips. “We meet again.”

Clarke forces her body to move and face forward so as to not look at that piece of perfection. “So we do.”

There are several beats of silence when Clarke can practically feel the other woman’s eyes on her. It shouldn’t exhilarate her too much, but seriously, being looked at by such a creature is doing _things_ to her, and she doesn’t know how to stop it. She’s not even sure she wants to.

She’s taken out of her internal battle when the woman asks, “How’s Wells today?”

Clarke looks at her, surprised that she knows who she works for and that, “You know Wells?”

The woman chuckles, and it’s a lovely sound that Clarke wouldn’t mind hearing again. “Yes, actually. We’re friends. And his boyfriend’s a perpetual pain in my ass—though not in the kind that they enjoy.”

Clarke blinks. She understands the innuendo, and with that understanding she feels the heat rushing to her face. This is _her boss_ —and friend of the family, to boot!—they’re talking about, and she really doesn’t want to know details about Wells’s intimate life.

Before she can reply, the woman has another question for her. “Are you going to the deli for lunch?”

“Yes,” Clarke manages to respond (which is an achievement for now, since her neurons are backfiring).

The woman hums, and then, “You might want to rethink that. It’s usually packed at this hour since a lot of employees are too lazy to head out to eat, or are too lazy to bring their own food, or who knows, maybe even both.” She shrugs. “By the time you’re served your food lunchtime is going to be already over.”

“Oh,” is all what Clarke says, and she realizes she probably looks stupid right now. She clears her throat, tries to regain some poise. “That’s a shame. I’m not familiar with the area yet.” And she sounds genuinely upset, because, well. It _is_ true, and she doesn’t want to starve on her first day.

Then the door dings open (their descent is uninterrupted, and for twenty-two floors that’s kind of something, and it niggles at the back of Clarke’s mind, but she can’t quite focus right now), and there’s suddenly a hand on the small of her back, stirring her out, and it jolts Clarke’s consciousness (in a deliciously good way—not that she’d ever own up to that). “Come on, I know a cafeteria just across the street. Their lunch specials are often heavenly.”

The way she says _heavenly_ —well, Clarke can think of some other things that sound like heaven right now.

“Okay,” she finds herself agreeing. And she can feel herself blushing again.

 _What is it with this woman_?

Scolding herself, Clarke decides that she should probably make small talk so as to not seem rude. (Not that she cares what Sex-On-A-Stick thinks of her, nope, not at all. She just wants to be at least polite to someone nice enough to direct her to a better food source.)

But then the woman says, “We haven’t actually introduced ourselves to each other yet, have we?”

“No, we haven’t.” She steals a glance at the woman’s profile, and her heart skips one beat too many.

Green eyes are crinkling at the corners in suppressed amusement. “I’m Lexa Woods.”

Lexa Woods.

Lexa Woods.

That sounds way too familiar.

She hears Wells’s voice in her mind.

“ _I_ ’ _m meeting with the Director of Grounders Consolidated at two o_ ’ _clock_ ,” he’d said. “ _I want you to come with me to get a feel of how things in the big leagues are done_.”

“ _That would be a pleasure_ ,” Clarke had replied eagerly.

“ _When you meet her_ , _you won_ ’ _t think like that_ ,” Wells chuckled wryly. “ _Lexa Woods is the bloody Commander with a heart of ice that no fire would ever be able to thaw_.”

Oh.

OH.

 _Oh_ , _no_.

 

Clarke is doomed.

 

****

 

Lexa Woods. Why did it take her so long to match the face to the name? She should have done her research. _She should have_. She always has, and of all times she couldn’t have, she chooses _now_.

It’s one of the most renowned names in New York, splashed across dozens of papers daily. She’s the CEO of The Coalition—she took over at age twenty-four and made waves in the financial world when she successfully revived the Woods family’s least taken care of company, which was near bankruptcy then. She acquired Sinclair Industries—top of the class in engineering and machineries—about a year ago. She formed Grounders Consolidated and is now its tough-as-nails director.

But mother of all things bright and beautiful, Clarke’s not imagined her to be this vision of gorgeousness.

She stops in her tracks right in the middle of Polis’s lobby and stares at Sex-On-A-Stick— _Director Lexa Woods_ —with wide eyes.

Woods looks back questioningly, and belatedly Clarke realizes that she hasn’t said anything for more than several seconds now.

Clearing her throat again, Clarke stretches out a hand (in an astonishing display of proper decorum that seems to have fled her earlier). “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Director Woods. I’m Clarke Griffin.”

Woods’s smirk widens (and it should be illegal, how sexy it is), and she takes Clarke’s hand. “The pleasure’s all mine, Clarke.”

Clarke feels a thousand emotions at the way her name sounds from that mouth. It throws her off-loop (again).

She hasn’t recovered yet when Woods entwines their fingers together. “And just call me Lexa.”

With that, she tugs Clarke out of Polis.

 

 

Clarke internally screams.

This is going to be a long lunch.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck. The. World. We need cuddles and cocoa and Alycia. Also proper and humane and decent media representation.
> 
> (kk just bawled my eyes out. again.)
> 
> Edit: Hello, lovelies. So while crying after the episode, I made this. But I wasn't able to post it right away because of reasons. Idk. But yeah. Check it out, ot not. It really depends. It's just a painting, but I was legit crying when I made this and it's rough but it's made of pain.
> 
>  <https://t.co/deP1L8P1ob>


	3. The Watch Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She slides a key card and steps in when the unassuming chrome door hisses open, and the guy inside starts at the sudden intrusion. Several books (astrophysics, biology, and is that astronomy?) tumble to the floor, along with an assortment of cables and tools.

 

Since seeing her in the club last night, Lexa hasn’t stopped thinking about the blonde woman.

 

****

 

She looks so pure and good, and Lexa is powerless against it.

Had Lexa not possessed remarkable self-control, she would have been a weak-kneed mess.

Good thing she’s great at pretending.

 

****

 

 _Clarke_.

(Of course she learns her name.)

 

****

 

Like all of Lexa’s properties, The Drop Ship is equipped with top-of-the-line security gadgets—and the package of course includes inconspicuous surveillance cameras in every corner of the place.

Immediately after the blonde left with her companion (whose name is Raven, apparently), Lexa heads to the club’s Watch Room—it’s like the main security room, where the video feeds are transmitted.

She slides a key card and steps in when the unassuming chrome door hisses open, and the guy inside starts at the sudden intrusion. Several books (astrophysics, biology, and is that _astronomy_?) tumble to the floor, along with an assortment of cables and tools.

“Oh, hey, Commander!”

Lexa rolls her eyes. “I thought you promised not to call me that, Monty.”

Monty just shrugs and grins. “Yeah, well, it suits you.”

“Uh-huh.”

He spins in his chair, and he stretches out a leg to lazily push one to Lexa.

Lexa catches the chair but does not move to sit down.

Monty Green is a lanky guy finishing his postgraduate studies, and his daytime schedule works well with The Drop Ship’s nighttime business hours. He has dark hair that’s always tousled in a just-got-out-of-bed way (with the bangs always falling across his eyes) and a charmingly awkward smile. He’s responsible and dependable. Lexa hired him for the Watch Room because despite always looking in need of a haircut, he’s really a good guy and his genius-level IQ allows him to tinker and make improvements for their systems.

She knows he’s overqualified for such a trivial post, but Lexa intends to transfer him to Polis once he gets his master’s.

He’s also one of the few people whom Lexa trusts, which is why he gets away with doing things that she would have considered transgressions were they done by anyone else.

“Any specific reason for the visit?” he asks, straightening up in his chair.

“Am I not allowed to check in on my own club?”

He shakes his head. “Not really, but you don’t just come in its security control room unless you have an ulterior motive.”

“I think I should be offended.”

“Right,” he laughs. “So, what is it?” He raises his eyebrows tellingly, and Lexa realizes that he _knows_.

She sighs at him. “You’re going to make me say it out loud, are you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not doing it.”

He laughs again. “You’re too proud. You need to loosen up.”

“And you need to work on the attitude. I just might fire you.”

“You’re not going to do that.”

He’s right. He’s an asset she doesn’t want to lose.

But she’s never admitting that. “You can be such a pain sometimes, you know.”

“I know.” He sounds way too happy about it.

“Just do your thing, Monty,” she says.

Monty looks at her with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Got you! Ha, thing is I don’t even have to do my _thing_ to know who she is. I know her, _and_ her best friend.” He chuckles. “Actually, scratch that. I know all of her family.”

Lexa shifts on her feet. “ _Excuse me_?”

Monty turns to his temple of computer screens and types in commands. Then, a photo of the blonde princess appears.

She’s sitting on a sofa, between Raven and a mischievous-looking black-haired guy, arms thrown over the two’s shoulders. Behind them, an older woman who has an expression so much like the blonde she must be her mother stands beside a man with kind eyes and a fine bearing.

“This is the Griffin family,” Monty says, waving at the screen with a flourish.

“Quite a bunch,” Lexa says under her breath. She pushes the chair closer to his screens and finally sits, eyes going over the image and taking in every detail. “How do you know them, Monty?”

Monty points to the screen. “See that black-haired dude?” He waits for Lexa’s nod. “That’s Jasper Jordan. He’s my best friend; has been since we were little.”

Lexa frowns, puzzled. “I thought you said it’s the _Griffin_ family?”

“Uhm, yeah,” Monty smiles. “He’s kind of adopted, just like Raven.” He points to the image of the dark-haired girl.

Her frown deepens. “But they do not take the name Griffin?”

“Nope, not really,” Monty says. “As I said, it’s just kind of adopted. More like, they’re guardians or something, but practically family, really.” Monty looks at her. “If one goes against any of them, well, the whole pack will rise in defense.”

Lexa nods understandingly. She gets that. After all, family is important for her, too.

“The girl you crashed into earlier is Clarke.” He turns to the screen again. “Her dad’s Mr. Jake Griffin, and her mom’s Dr. Abigail.”

Monty then pulls up several more tabs, and his excitement shows. Lexa has no wish to tamp it down—after all, the information coming from him is valuable.

“Their estate is up north in Maine, and it gets chilly there real quick, but it’s _magnificent_.”

He types some more and pulls up several news articles, one of which reads, “Griffin Grand Holdings opens a new art gallery; Heiress Clarke Griffin showcases latest installations.”

“She’s an artist,” Lexa murmurs, almost to herself. And she thinks it suits Clarke, really, whom Lexa believes is art come alive herself.

“Yeah! Paint’s her favoured medium, also charcoal, but she sculpts too. And she’s like, super talented. And super smart too. She was accepted in three Ivy schools for pre-med programmes. But she declined them in favor of an art school in the UK.”

“Impressive.”

“Right?” Monty’s grin dims a little. “But of course, Dr. Abby was furious, but Mr. Griffin supported her all the way, so, it’s not all bad. Raven’s pretty bummed though, ’cause she was left in MIT while Clarke caroused abroad. Wasn’t really terrible, even if Raven says otherwise. I mean, well, she did get to build her own rep in a pretty sweet fashion.”

“A rep?”

His grin gets back its former energy. “Yes! Her name’s pretty famous in my . . .” he gestures vaguely, “. . . community.”

Lexa frowns in contemplation, and shakes her head wryly when she catches on. “And by your community you mean hackers,” she deadpans.

He raises his hands. “I prefer restricted information specialist.”

“Right,” she scoffs.

“Come on,” Monty waves to a photo of Raven while looking at Lexa almost disapprovingly. “I’m surprised Grounders hasn’t recruited her yet. I’m surprised you haven’t even _heard_ of her. She’s practically a legend.”

“I take it you’re a fan of hers?”

Monty doesn’t deny it. “Can’t help it. She’s real good. Her skills are like, leagues beyond mine. I mean, she _taught_ me stuff, you know.”

Now Lexa is intrigued. If Raven’s as good as Monty claims, then she’s going to have to talk to her recruitment unit and demand why the girl is not in the line-up. “Do tell more.”

Monty’s eyes have a manic gleam to them. “She hacked into the NSA database from her own room using a laptop.”

She’s taken aback, replaying his words in her mind but not totally comprehending. “Excuse me?” If that did happen, she surely would have heard of it. It’s a security breach of _the freaking NSA_.

Monty chuckles. “Of course it was covered up,” he explains, seeing her reaction. “But not before causing waves in the intelligence community. Remember _The Helium Movement_?”

Lexa nods. _The Helium Movement_ caused severe damage to secure government servers a few years ago, leaking out classified information and confidential records for public consumption.

“Well, that project’s hers.”

Oh.

“She’s almost taken into federal custody, but Mr. Griffin pulled some strings. Made a deal, where Raven would repair what she cracked and reinforce the firewalls into something un-hackable.”

“Nothing’s un-hackable,” she reasons. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s not,” he argues, looking her in the eyes. “She’s free right now, isn’t she?”

Lexa blows out a breath. Okay, then. This Raven-person’s obviously something else. “But how do I not know about this?”

“Told you, cover up. Just about 1 percent of the intelligence community knows about this.”

“How are you one of the 1 percent?”

“Mr. Sinclair told me.”

Now that’s news. “ _What_?”

“He’s kind of a fan, too,” Monty smirks, “though he calls it ‘supporting badass kickers.’ He’s been following Raven’s electronic signature since before the whole fiasco.”

“Why did he not tell me about her?” Lexa scowls. “We could use her.”

“It’s before the acquisition too, you know.”

“ _Still_.”

He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick out higher. “Maybe he knows it’s gonna be useless, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“With that capability, Raven’s been courted by a lot of agencies. A lot. And the offers are generous. But she hasn’t accepted anything.”

She crosses her arms. “I can double their offers.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s about the money. I mean, her family’s already wealthy, and she’d been selling programs and devices of her own, off the book, which is probably why you haven’t caught drift of her.” He shrugs again. “I think she simply just doesn’t wanna work.” He taps a finger to his lips thoughtfully.  “Now that I think about it, neither of them even has to work. They’re like, heiresses.” He frowns. “But Jasper mentioned something about Clarke getting a job here in New York.”

Oh. Well.

There’s only one question now, then. “Who’s her employer?”

If anything, Lexa would buy whatever company it is, if it increased the chance of them meeting again in an unsuspicious way.

Monty types something again, and a few more windows pop out, and _wow_ , okay.

 

Clarke Griffin is currently employed Alpha Station, Inc. as Wells Jaha’s new assistant.

 

 _Brilliant_.

 

Tomorrow’s going to be a good day.

 

****

 

Her initial plan was to ask Wells to lunch before they proceed to the two o’clock presentation, probably on the pretense of catching up, which holds more truth than falsehood anyway. Wells is in a committed relationship with her business associate Nathan and it would be nice to talk to him—he’s one of the nicest guys around, and she admires his honesty and good sense. (She has always told Nathan what a catch his boyfriend is.)

And if his assistant were with him, Lexa would have asked her to come along too. (Hitting two birds with one stone, so to speak.)

But sometimes (most of the time), plans fail.

 

This is way better than the plan, though.

 

****

 

When she sees realization pass through those gorgeous eyes, Lexa has to fight the urge to laugh. She settles for just watching Clarke compose herself. It’s a remarkable thing. (Honestly, Clarke could just continue breathing, and Lexa would have found it remarkable.)

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Director Woods. I’m Clarke Griffin,” she says, offering a hand.

Lexa takes it. “The pleasure’s all mine, Clarke.” She loves the way her name rolls off her tongue. “And just call me Lexa.”

 

Their fingers fit perfectly together.

 

(Something warm settles in Lexa’s chest, but she can’t analyze that now.)

(Maybe later.)

(Maybe.)

 

****

 

Clarke is getting a headache.

She just met the director of one of the largest corporations in the country, probably the continent. Or maybe the world. She can’t be too sure. But she does know that Lexa Woods is a pretty powerful person. (Or is that a pretty _and_ a powerful person? Ugh.)

Clarke is well aware of her own social status. Their father is a mega-financier who practically has Midas’s touch, and he’s from a line of Northern aristocrats. Their mother hails from a family that holds an impressive sway in the medical field at an international level.

So, yeah, Clarke knows that she’s rich and that her family has some influence in certain circles.

But even then, she also knows that Lexa Woods is still _way_ beyond her.

The face might have escaped her—an amateur mistake that she vows won’t ever happen again—but the name is one not easily forgotten or taken for granted.

The Woods are a prominent family with members in various industries. Some are bureaucrats and state executives. Some are military officials. Some, ironically, are crime lords. Some are business moguls.

Lexa Woods is a combination of all of the above, for all Clarke knows. She definitely has the shrewd eye of a politician, having been connected to government circuits in the state and in the country as a whole.

And well, she is obviously gifted in trade.

Six months after she took charge of The Coalition, three other sizeable companies had been acquired. By the time she turned twenty-five, its profit and Woods’s own net worth _both_ quintupled. A month after that, her family’s underdog company became its frontrunner, when The Coalition effortlessly seized control of Woods Conglomerate. (Clarke knows this because her father talks about it from time-to-time—he tends to be really enthusiastic when discussing potential business partners, and Lexa Woods happens to be the most remarkable one. Given that, Clarke is even more disappointed in herself for not even bothering to look for any images to match to the name. This oversight is now biting her in the ass.)

Clarke thinks that Woods probably owns a significant chunk of New York. Maybe half of Manhattan.

But that’s not the point.

The point is this woman’s way beyond her.

 

But Clarke would be lying if she said she’s not intrigued.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a change: I overlooked this when I posted Chapter 2, but Lexa acquired Sinclair Industries and not Miller. Sorry for the confusion.
> 
> This chapter's the shortest one yet, but I swear I'll make up for it soon. I just got distracted by other projects. And by reading other fanfics. And basically by crying again. So.
> 
> And, lovely readers, thank you for, well, reading. Come yell at me at tumblr if you want. Or not.  
> Ste yuj.


	4. The Restaurant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s a creature made to be wanted, sought, desired.  
> And Clarke really should stop thinking about that immediately.

 

Not even ten minutes of knowing each other, and Clarke is already pretty sure this woman will be the death of her.

Like, _super_ sure.

She’s not one to believe in instantly connecting with anyone, but she cannot deny to herself that she _is_ inexplicably drawn to Sex-On-A-Stick.

 _No, Clarke. You can’t just call her Sex-On-A-Stick. She’s_ Director _Lexa Woods. She’s kind of your boss’s boss._

 _Which, in some ways, also makes her_ your _boss._

_Oh dear lord._

She can feel herself being filled with restless energy, and it makes her tremendously agitated.

No, _agitated_ is not quite the right word.

Clarke catches her reflection on one of the spotless glass windows they pass, and she sees that her face is rosy and her eyes too bright.

And this look on her face is one she’s seen before. Many times.

It’s the same look she has whenever she’s . . . in the middle of a seduction.

It’s her Let-Us-Now-Fuck look.

And— _my god, Clarke, get a damn grip of yourself_ —it definitely has no business being on her face right now.

 

So, no, _agitated_ is not the right word.

 

Clarke Griffin is _horny_ as fuck.

 

 

And, honestly, Clarke cannot be held accountable for it. She’s only human, after all, and Director Lexa Woods _is_ breathtakingly beautiful.

Actually, _beautiful_ doesn’t even sufficiently cover it, no.

She’s . . . alluring. Enthralling. Magnificent.

Clarke cannot help looking. She has been trying very hard not to, earlier, in a confined space, where she couldn’t possibly control her impulses. But now, out in the open, where people are milling about, it is relatively safe, and Clarke’s willpower snaps. She’s an artist, first and foremost, and when faced with something—someone—so stunningly glorious, it would be criminal not to stare.

And so Clarke does. She drinks the sight of Lexa in.

Lexa Woods must have been made by the gods themselves. The lines of her face would have made Bernini weep, for they were sculpted to divine perfection, both sharp and soft, both harsh and gentle. And Michelangelo, for all his brilliance and genius, wouldn’t have been able to capture the exact shade of her eyes—it’s like they change with the light, holding forests one moment and then the seas the next, and at the same time they seem to hold Clarke’s universe in their depths.

She’s a creature made to be wanted, sought, _desired_.

And Clarke really should stop thinking about that immediately.

She knows she should.

But she _can’t_.

Because Lexa is like this powerful force of nature that Clarke cannot stop.

Lexa continues to lead her . . . somewhere, and they are now crossing the street, and the way she’s holding Clarke’s hand—like she has no intention whatsoever of letting go—sends warmth through every single part of her body. _Every_. _Single_. _Part_.

 _Focus, Clarke_.

Desperate to turn away from her treacherous thoughts, Clarke lets her eyes drop from that dazzling face and wander somewhere else.

And it turns out to be a fantastically horrible idea.

Because, of course, her gaze lands on the rest of Lexa.

Lexa’s suit highlights her powerfully lean body in all the right ways, not really concealing what lies beneath. The popped collar of her dress shirt draws attention to a neck begging to be kissed, and licked, and sucked, and— _lord, lord, lord, stop it, Griffin._

Clarke wants to rip Lexa’s clothes apart and watch the buttons scatter away with all the shits she gives about public decency.

 _Think of puppies. Or cute kittens. Or, dammit, think of how you’re gonna strangle Raven later. Do not think of wild and primal and sheet-clawing fucking on beds and on any surface, horizontal or otherwise, and_ —

“Here we are,” Lexa announces. She abruptly halts in front of a quaint little restaurant that looks straight out of Pinterest, with a sign that reads “La Vie en Rouge,” and the sudden stop causes Clarke to stumble into her.

Again.

And Lexa catches her; she still has a hand holding Clarke’s, and the other grips Clarke’s waist—and Lexa slowly lets it slide and finally rest on the small of Clarke’s back, anchoring her in place. Their bodies are now pressed together in _just_ the right places, and their faces are about an inch apart, and the proximity _will_ kill Clarke.

Clarke can feel herself being sucked into Lexa’s gravity. Air has deserted her lungs the same way her common sense deserted her brain. She is unable to tear herself away, despite being aware in some level that there are a lot of people around. This close, she can get a whiff of Lexa’s scent, and the whole world be damned if it didn’t make her weak in the knees. There’s a hint of leather, and a hint of spice, and yet Lexa also smells of something fresh and clean, like the first rain of spring.

“You seem to have made a habit of falling into me, Clarke,” Lexa says. Her smooth voice fogs Clarke’s mind even more, and the way she says her name . . . well, Clarke thinks she might be able to come just by hearing Lexa say her name enough.

 _Oh my god, stop it, Griffin_.

And Lexa is smirking—that arrogant smirk that really should be banned from existence because it surely would cause massive disturbance anywhere every time it shows itself—like she knows exactly what is running through Clarke’s mind, and Clarke wants to sink her teeth into those plump lips in defiance and in desperate need.

Clarke licks her own lips, noting their dryness, and she doesn’t miss the way Lexa’s eyes zero in on the movement.

“I’m sorry about that,” she apologizes, though she doesn’t even attempt to put some distance between them. Really, it would be impossible to voluntarily step away, not when she can feel the stone-hard muscles of Lexa’s body even through the layers of clothing they are both (unfortunately) wearing.

“Don’t be,” Lexa’s voice has dropped several octaves, and the low rumble of it makes Clarke ache with acute want, “I quite enjoy these moments.”

They stand like that, maintaining eye contact, neither of them willing to break first.

And they would have been there for a _long_ time if the universe didn’t make the decision for them.

“Commander, hi!” a lively, cheery voice says, and both Lexa and Clarke turn toward the direction whence it came.

A young woman with curly dark hair stands by the restaurant’s door, grinning at them widely, and her eyes are alight with childlike glee. She is wearing a green apron over a white dress, and she’s holding an empty tray.

Lexa releases Clarke’s hand and loosens her hold until they’re standing side by side. Still she has an arm draped around Clarke’s waist, as if she can’t totally relinquish their physical contact. She greets the woman, “Hello, Maya. How’re you?”

“Wonderful, thanks,” Maya’s grin widens even more. “Table for two today?”

Lexa nods. “That would be great.”

“Come on, then.” Then Maya turns and walks inside.

Lexa follows and stirs Clarke beside her.

They are led to a secluded corner, and the setting is intimate but also cozy enough to not be uncomfortable. There are candles all around, and their warm glow soothes Clarke, relaxing her from the unease she feels when Lexa has to let go of her so that they can both sit.

Maya hands them a menu she’s grabbed on the way, and she says, “I’ll get your order in a few, okay?” She looks excited, and she’s almost vibrating with her high spirits.

Lexa tips her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

When she’s away, Lexa looks at Clarke again. “Try their fettuccine Alfredo. It’s excellent,” she suggests, not even bothering to look at the menu.

“You come here a lot?” Clarke asks, and she cringes at the words. _Shit. What a cliché, Clarke_.

Lexa chuckles at that, and the sound is heart-stopping, and Clarke wants to hear it again and again. “You don’t need to pick me up, Clarke. We’re already on a date.”

Clarke gulps, and she tries to regain a little bit of something called her chill. “This is a date?”

Lexa leans in, and her eyes—her beautiful eyes that Clarke could spend her life looking into—are dancing with amusement. “If you want it to be.”

“We’ve only just met,” she points out.

“So?”

“So you don’t know anything about me, and I don’t know anything about you.” Clarke frowns. “Well, anything about you that isn’t public knowledge.”

“On the contrary, I know enough about you.” Lexa’s smile is seriously causing Clarke’s neurons to misfire. “Monty’s told me some interesting things.”

Clarke’s eyes widen with surprise. “You know Monty?”

Lexa shrugs. “I’m his boss.”

 _Holy freaking hell_.

“The Drop Ship. You own it.”

Clarke thinks of how Raven found the club online, and she thinks of Raven’s text earlier, and the mischief she sees in her housemate’s face before going to bed last night. Then she thinks of Monty’s gig, how he told them in passing that he’s got a part-time job in one of the hottest bars in New York, and how his boss is a tough but often misunderstood commander.

 _Commander. How many Commanders_ might _there be? How did you not make the connection, Griffin? You’re losing your touch._

“Among others.” And it is not said arrogantly, but rather matter-of-factly.

“And this place?”

“Maya Vie, the girl from earlier, she’s the proprietor.” Lexa’s eyes bore into Clarke’s and there’s a force behind them that is simply irresistible. “So what do you say?”

“Say about what?”

“About whether this is a date, Clarke.”

“Oh.” On one hand, here is a demigod who seems to be into Clarke, and it obviously strokes her ego that such a fine specimen finds her interesting enough.

On the other hand, she wasn’t kidding when she told Raven that this woman seems dangerous. Lexa radiates this aura of steely control and remarkable command, like she’s not used to being denied, and Clarke wouldn’t be surprised if that extends to bedroom activities.

Not that she’s actively thinking about _that_.

Clarke clears her throat then, and she’s on the verge of saying _no_ , but what comes out of her mouth is, “What do _you_ want?”

Lexa raises an eyebrow, and her lips quirk up in another teasing smirk. “I thought that was obvious.”

“No, actually. Enlighten me.”

Lexa shifts in her seat, and she’s even closer now, and her mouth curves into a genuine smile that makes her look younger and even more strikingly gorgeous. “I want to fuck you, Clarke.”

 

****

 

Before Clarke can fully process that, Maya arrives to take their orders.

“We’ll have a fettuccine Alfredo and your rib-eye steak, medium rare, please,” Lexa says.

Maya nods. She glances at Clarke, who appears thunderstruck, and looks questioningly at Lexa, as if asking, _What did you do now?_

Lexa stares at Maya with the most innocent expression she can muster, which, granted, isn’t much. Maya just rolls her eyes and goes to get them their food.

When Lexa turns to look back at Clarke, the blonde’s blue irises are almost drowned by her black pupils, and Lexa’s blood thrums at the sight.

“And if I don’t feel the same way?” Clarke husks out, and her voice—smoky and breathy and full of wicked promise—is Lexa’s ruin.

Lexa reaches out to let her fingertips trail over Clarke’s flushed cheeks. “Biology tells me otherwise, _Clarke_.”

Clarke takes in a sharp breath, and Lexa sees the exact moment when all the turmoil and energy thrashing within her break free as they become too much to contain. In under a second, Clarke has crossed the distance between them, and she’s straddling Lexa’s lap. Lexa’s hands slide over Clarke’s thighs and onto her ass, pulling her impossibly closer as their lips meet in a searing kiss.

Clarke shoves a hand into Lexa’s hair, tugging harshly, holding her still as she sucks on Lexa’s tongue. Lexa lets out an almost pained groan, which turns into a growl when Clarke moans—the most erotic sound Lexa has ever heard in her life. Lexa deepens the kiss, and Clarke kisses back as if she could eat Lexa alive.

The imagery _that_ conjures sends a jolt straight into Lexa’s core, and the strength of her reaction shocks her enough into pulling away with a gasp.

Clarke doesn’t let up, instead nuzzling into Lexa’s cheek and her lips ghost over Lexa’s ear. Lexa inhales sharply, and her hands squeeze Clarke’s ass, hard.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me, princess, but I don’t want you to stop,” Lexa whispers.

Clarke lowers her face again, and she answers against Lexa’s lips, “The same holds for you, too, you know.”

Lexa moves to catch Clarke’s bottom lip between her teeth, nibbling on it before soothing the sting with her tongue. Clarke tilts her head and chases Lexa’s mouth once more, and they kiss until they are both out of breath.

“You know, Commander, I am really super excited that you finally brought someone here, and now, with this, I know I can finally cash in on the bet I had with Monty. So thanks.” Maya’s laughing voice pierces through the cloud of lust that has settled over Lexa and Clarke.

Clarke starts at the intrusion, eyes full of the realization that they are indeed in a _public_ place, and she scrambles to get off Lexa’s lap.

Lexa doesn’t let her, though; her arms lock around Clarke, effectively trapping her.

“ _Lexa_ ,” Clarke hisses, but Lexa ignores her. Sighing, Clarke buries her face into Lexa’s shoulder.

“Here’s your food, Ms. Woods,” Maya says, serving up their lunch with a flourish. “Though I can see you’re hungry for something else.”

Lexa winks. “You know I love your food, Maya, but it’s going to take a backseat for now.”

“Not really blaming you.” Maya adds, “And there’s always room for dessert, yeah?” before leaving them again.

“This is fucking embarrassing,” Clarke says, her voice muffled, and Lexa feels lighter than she ever did before.

Clarke’s presence makes her lose all her inhibitions. She’s used to being in control, of everything, but now, with this princess— _angel_ —she can’t really care about that, and her heart is beating so fast, and for the first time in a long while, Lexa . . . Lexa feels at peace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: what character development. ain't nobody got time fo' that.  
> also me: kidding. wait.  
> and me again: i gotta get a grip too i'm approaching sin territory halp
> 
> Please I do not know what I'm doing am I in the right direction.  
> I swear I had a plot in mind when I started this.  
> But it's up in flames now. Like my sanity.  
> Feedback is appreciated 'cause honestly this is turning out to be a majorly new thing fo' me.  
> Help me sin.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me or something at [A Blank Canvas](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/) or [@joampolin](https://twitter.com/joampolin). Let us all cry together.  
> Ste yuj.


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